Punch or The London charivari: Punch or The London charivari (5.1843)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

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children ! Did we not see the money-bags dancing on the mantel-
piece, we might know by the comfortable, cosey look of the wife,
that she was a helpmate tipon whom her husband might at any time
depend for a ten-pound ndte ; as Shakspere says, " an excellent
thing in woman." Then, what a sweet subtlety is there in that
winged guardian angel of the fire-place, cooking the man's goose !
Goose, we have somewhere heard it stated, is always made the strong
apology for brandy. Here, it is evidently shown, as a triumphant
evidence of Temperance—a victorious test of Teetotalism. The
angel, pumping doubloons or sovereigns, completes the picture !

Turn we to the Drop of Gin ! What do we behold ? Despair
dangling by a Rope : the great Tempter of Man buying souls at the
price of " three outs suicide with trigger at full work ; domestic
maiming and bruising ; and the Dragon Law in the voluminous folds
of Power of Attorney, enveloping the victim of alcohol.

Public, ponder on these things ; and with a smile in your face, and
gratitude in your heart, pay up your water-rates !

Q.

POLITE CONVERSATIONS.

Mr. Broicn.—Good morning, Mrs. Smith.

sure of seeing you quite ?

Mrs. Smith.—Quite, thank you.

I hope I have the plea-

— 1

Mr. B.—And Mr. Smith, I hope he is quite ?

Mrs. 8.—Quite, thank you.

Mr. B.—And all the ?

Mrs. S.—Quite, thank you.

Mr. B.—Has your eldest boy quite recovered from the
Mrs. S.—Quite, thank you.

Mr. B.—The weather is exceedingly .

Mrs. S.—It is, indeed.

Mr. B.—Have you been riding to-day in the

Mrs. S.—No ; the day was so very .

Mr. B.—Ah—yes—exactly.

(A pav.se.)

Mr. B.—A—a—a—a—a—

Mrs. S.—I beg your pardon ?

Mr. B.—I didn't say

Mrs. S.—Oh, I thought vou were saying

Mr. B.—No.

Mrs. S.—Indeed ?

Mr. B.—Well, I mustn't detain you from your—
Mrs. S.—Good mor' .

(Exeunt severally.)

THE PUMP AT KENSINGTON.

ensington has been quite divided on the sub-
ject of the parish pump, which has for
some time absolutely resisted any attempts
to be used as a handle by the parishioners.
The spout is supposed also to have turned
rusty. As every criminal, even a pump,
is by the Britisli Constitution entitled to
be tried by its equals, the parish pump
has been handed over to the parish vestry-
men. The Movement party are for taking
the pump away from its present position,
and setting it up in a more convenient
spot : the only objection to which would
be, that there is no water in the place
where it is proposed to take it to. Brunei's
opinion has been asked, but he has ob-
served his usual silence. The turncock has been consulted, and received
a shilling for an attempt to ease the piston, by which his finger was sadly
jammed ; and the authorities are not likely, after this sacrifice of blood
and treasure, to go to any further outlay.

IVXigratory Building's.

In a current advertisement we read, that "Messrs. W. Y. F. & Co.'s
distillery, having passed many years in France, defies competition." This is
curious. We know the House of Hanover resided in England, but never
heard of a distillery paying avisit to France. Doubtless, Goding's Brewery
will next year take atrip to Germany; and Pickford's Warehouses start
off for an excursion to Switzerland, in company with Maltby's Shot Factory.

37oreigrn Intelligence.

We stop the press to announce the singular fact of a gentleman's car-
riage having been seen in Russell Square.

A DROP OF GIN!

GIN ! Gin ! a Drop of Gin !

What magnified Monsters circle therein !
Ragged, and stained with filth and mud,

Some plague-spotted, and some with blood !
Shapes of Misery, Shame, and Sin !

Figures that make us loathe and tremble,
Creatures scarce human, that more resemble
Broods of diabolical kin,

Ghoule and Vampyre, Demon and Jin !

Gin ! Gin ! a Drop of Gin !

The dram of Satan ! the liquor of Sin !—

Distill'd from the fell
Alembics of Hell,

By Guilt and Death, his own brother and twin !
That Man might fall
Still lower than all
The meanest creatures with scale and fin.
But hold—we are neither Barebones nor Prynne,
Who lash'd with such rage
The sies of the age ;

Then, instead of making too much of a din,
Let Anger be mute,

And sweet Mercy dilute,

With a Drop of Pity, the Drop of Gin !

Gin ! Gin ! a Drop of Gin !—

When darkly Adversity's day's set in,

And the friends and peers
Of earlier years
Prove warm without, but cold within,—
And cannot retrace
A familiar face
That's steep'd in poverty up to the chin ;—-
But snub, neglect, cold-shoulder and cut
The ragged pauper, misfortune's butt,

Hardly acknowledg'd by kith and kin—

Because, poor rat!

He has no cravat ;

A seedy coat, and a hole in that!—

No sole to his shoe, and no brim to his hat;
Nor a change of linen—except his skin :—
No gloves—no vest,

Either second or best;

And what is worse than all the rest,

No light heart, tho' his breeches are thin,—
While Time elopes
With all golden hopes,

And even with those of pewter and tin,—
The brightest dreams,

And the best of schemes,

All knock'd down, like a wicket by Mynn,—
Each castle in air
Seized by Giant Despair,

No prospect in life worth a minikin pin,—
No credit—no cash,

No cold mutton to hash,

No bread—not even potatoes to mash ;
No coal in the cellar, no wine in the binn,—
Smash'd, broken to bits,

With judgments and writs,

Bonds, bills, and cognovits, distracting the wits,
In the webs that the spiders of Chancery spin,
Till weary of life, its worry and strife ;
Black visions are rife of a razor, a knife,
Of poison—a rope—" louping over a linn."—
Gin ! Gin ! a Drop of Gin !

Oh ! then its tremendous temptations begin,
To take, alas !

To the fatal glass,—

And happy the wretch that it does not win
To change the black hue
Of his ruin to blue—

WThile Angels sorrow, and Demons grin—
And lose the rheumatic
Chill of his attic
By plunging into the Palace of Gin I